


Not Proven

by scherryzade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After the Fall, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scherryzade/pseuds/scherryzade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg believes that Sherlock Holmes was no fraud, but he cannot prove it. Mycroft Holmes may have proof, but his agenda is unclear.</p>
<p>(Greg doesn't believe he can trust Mycroft; Mycroft finds that he wishes to prove himself trustworthy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Proven

**Author's Note:**

> In Scots law, a jury can return one of three possible verdicts: guilty, not guilty, or not proven. Of course, in general people assume that 'not proven' means 'guilty, but he's a canny bastard and got away with it' - and besides, it holds no weight in English law...

It's not the first funeral of a friend he's been to, nor of a colleague. Not even the first suicide (Tom Henderson, who'd been through training with Greg and always got promoted ahead of him, and got called out to the scene of one small corpse too many).

But, God, it has to be the most miserable.

The cemetery is lovely - quiet and leafy, full of calm, shady corners, and above all, remote. It's likely the lack of press has more to do with Mycroft than the location, but no doubt it's a factor in the choice. There's no indication that this is the Holmes' family plot.

He can't think of a less appropriate resting place for Sherlock. But then, the mere idea of Sherlock _resting_ is so alien-

Christ, the funeral is fucking ghastly.

Half a dozen mourners at a graveside service led by an indifferent vicar, the gravediggers waiting, bored, not fifty yards away. The sky is overcast, but doesn't even have the decency to rain.

Greg finds himself standing between Molly Hooper and Mrs Hudson, the latter leaning on him as if gaining some strength that Greg can't say he feels, the former inching away as the service progresses.

Mycroft Holmes stands opposite, next to a woman who can only be his mother. She has Sherlock's shifting, angular features, and ignores Mycroft in much the same manner. Mycroft seems unruffled by this.

Mycroft seems unsettlingly unruffled by the whole affair.

And then there's John.

John stands still and silent and painful to watch: worse than after Sherlock fell, because now he's tracking, completely aware of what's going on around him, jaw clenched, fists held tight at his sides, every line of him tense. Greg makes a halfhearted attempt to catch his eye, hating himself for the relief he feels when John pointedly looks straight past him.

Halfway through the vicar's bland, impersonal eulogy, Mrs Holmes starts to walk away from the graveside. Mycroft catches her arm, says "Now, Mummy," in a low, chiding tone, but she pulls away from him.

"Insufferable boy," she spits, and Greg can't tell if it's aimed at Mycroft or Sherlock.

Mycroft lets her go.

The vicar, bless him, hasn't missed a beat.

Molly doesn't cry, but flinches at every mention of Sherlock's name. Greg's glad she's there, and bewildered, because Sherlock treated her worse than he treated most of the Met, and none of them are here. He can't decide whether it shows delusion or strength of character.

He's not unaware that the same could be said of himself.

Mrs Hudson is the only one who cries, and he stops to hug her as they start to leave. "Anything I can do," he says, helplessly, "let me know."

She smiles at him, and pats his arm. "You just clear his name, Inspector. He was a good boy, and you know it."

"It's - I - " he says, biting back 'It's impossible' and 'I don't even know if I'll still be _Inspector_ after next week' and 'How the hell do I do that, Mrs Hudson? The only man who could prove Sherlock wasn't a fraud is Sherlock, which would be a lousy proposition even if he wasn't dead -'. "Yes," he says instead. "I'll do my best."

_Not good enough_ , says the echo of Sherlock's voice in his head.

He turns away, hoping to catch John, hoping to say - something, anything, instead of standing there, lumpen and inadequate - but John's already gone.

Instead, he finds himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes, who offers him a thin, inscrutable smile and raises his hand to silence Greg before he can offer his condolences.

"A moment of your time, Inspector, if it's not too much trouble."

He's walking away before Greg can even react, Greg's compliance presumably not in doubt. Which is true, he thinks, as he trots diligently after Mycroft, but he's damned if he's not going to resent it.

Encounters with Mycroft Holmes always leave him feeling dull and inarticulate in a way that Sherlock never did, but something about trailing after him, dragged away to talk shop when his brother's barely in the ground, loosens Greg's tongue.

"Aren't you upset? Even a little? He was your _brother_. You always liked to meddle in his life - I always assumed that meant you cared -"

"I've been waiting to bury my brother for ten years, Inspector. I have you to thank that his death was so delayed."

"Well, that's - that's fucking _rational_ of you."

"You mustn't mistake me for my brother, Inspector."

"Oh, I couldn't. Sherlock I understand. Understood. Thought I understood -" The grief hits him like a blow to the stomach, and he finds himself leaning against a crumbling gravestone, struggling to catch his breath. "Christ."

Mycroft holds out a handkerchief, and Greg takes it, biting back the urge ask him who the hell carries a real handkerchief these days, because it's better than wiping snot on the sleeve of his suit.

It's probably fucking monogrammed.

"You misjudge me, Inspector. I may not be upset, but I am angry. And I intend to do something about that."


End file.
